


What's Eating Malcolm Bright?

by JustSomeGirlWriting



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 21:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20803577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustSomeGirlWriting/pseuds/JustSomeGirlWriting
Summary: What if it was JT and not Dani who found Malcolm when he was having his night terror at the police station?Set during the pilot episode.





	What's Eating Malcolm Bright?

It had been a long day and JT was in dire need of a good, strong cup of coffee. But, given the absence of such a thing in the precinct's breakroom, he settled for a crappy cup of brown caffeinated water instead. As he returned to his desk, sad liquid sloshing around in the chipped mug with its faded NYPD logo, he heard a noise. More specifically, he heard a voice. It came from one of the meeting rooms.

"No. Don't- don't open it."

At first, JT didn't recognize the voice. Then it clicked. It was that smartass profiler that Gil had brought in on their case. The one with the sarcastic remarks. But the guy didn't sound like a smartass now. He sounded really freaked out, scared. "The hell?", JT mumbled under his breath as he made his way to the room, one hand on the service weapon on his belt.

He walked through the open door, only to see that the space was empty, safe for Bright.  
The profiler was half sitting, half laying down in a chair, but he looked anything but relaxed.  
His face was screwed up into a frightened frown, and he continued to mumble. 

"Don't, please don't open it..."

JT knew he had to do something. Much as this guy had annoyed him earlier, he did have a heart. He wasn't going to just leave him like this.

"Hey, Bright! It's just a dream man, wake up!", JT said loudly. He didn't want to touch Bright unless strictly necessary- something told him that that would only escalate the situation.  
However, Bright didn't respond, continuing his distressed litany of "don'ts" and "no's" instead.  
A tear broke free from his clenched eyelids, sliding down his cheek. That was it. Action was needed, now.

JT took a deep breath and reached out to lightly shake Bright's shoulder, stepping back to give him space immediately after.

Bright shot up in his chair, gasping like he'd been drowning, his eyes wide.

"Hey man, it's okay. You had a bad dream, but you're okay now."

JT found himself instinctively raising his hands and stepping back even further, giving Bright his space.

Bright took a shuddering breath and covered his face in both his hands.

Speaking through them, his voiced muffled, he said: "I'm sorry. I get night terrors. I didn't mean to freak you out. I didn't, like, punch you or anything, did I?"

"Don't flatter yourself, man. You couldn't hit me on your best day."

Bright snorted at that, lowering his hands to his lap. His eyes, JT noted, were still wet. Something about the haunted look on Bright's face made JT change his tone.

"Seriously though, are you alright? Do you want a glass of water, should I go get Gil?"

"No, no need to get Gil. I'm fine... I just- um. Water would be nice, thank you." 

JT left to fill a glass at the water cooler, closing the door behind him to give Bright some privacy. He wondered what in the world was going on with him. Nightmares like that didn't just happen out of nowhere- there had to be some kind of trauma involved.  
JT had had Bright pegged as a typical silver spoon, Upper East Side type of dude: expensive coat, more expensive degree. But somewhere along the line, something had gone terribly wrong for this guy. That much was clear.

When JT returned with the glass of water, Bright was pacing the room, wringing his hands in what seemed to be an attempt to pull himself together. JT didn't fail to notice the way Bright jumped slightly when he entered the room.

Bright reached for the glass, thanking JT. The second he reached out, though, JT could tell that it wasn't going to work. Bright's hands were visibly shaking and he failed to hold onto the glass. It slipped through his trembling fingers and crashed onto the floor, shattering and sending ice cold water in all directions. 

"Fuck!", Bright swore harshly and immediately knelt down to begin picking up the shards.

"Go easy, Bright, you're going to cut yourself! I'll get a broom."

"No, I'll do it. You should- God, I'm sorry."

Bright stood up and practically bolted out of the room, presumably in search of a broom.

JT went back to his desk, gathering his thoughts. He figured it was best to leave Bright to it, let him pick up the pieces of both the glass and himself. 

Sure enough, Bright soon returned with a dustpan, brush and a wad of paper towels, setting to work. After he cleaned up, he returned the tools and sat back down at his desk. Aside from the visible tension in his shoulders, he seemed to have settled back into business as usual.

JT felt a stab of sympathy: how often must the guy go through episodes like this, for it to be so routine? He wondered whether he should let Gil know what happened, for Bright's sake- and for the team's sake, really: just how stable (or unstable) was this guy?  
But he thought better of it- Bright was a grown man, after all. He was entitled to his privacy. If he wanted Gil to know, he would tell him.

As if on cue, Gil appeared in JT's field of vision, walking to the meeting room and knocking lightly on the doorframe. From where he was sitting, JT could only just make out what he was saying. 

"Hey, Malcolm, how are things in here?"

Malcolm perked up in his seat, shot Gil a small smile.

"Hi Gil. I'm good, thanks. Making real progress with the profile. How are things with you?"

"I'm good, Malcolm. But I didn't really mean the work. I meant you. Are you good? This case must bring up a ton of crap for you."

JT wondered what he was talking about... Why would this case in particular bring things up for a former FBI profiler?

"I'm okay, Gil. I just- No. I'm fine."

JT wasn't convinced. Apparently, neither was Gil, who shut the door behind him and rounded the desk to stand next to where Bright was sitting. He leaned a hip against the tabletop, scrutinizing Bright, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

JT knew he probably shouldn't be sticking his nose in, but he found himself unable to look away as the two continued their (now inaudible) conversation.

As they spoke, Bright seemed to shrink further and further into his chair, hugging his arms to his chest in what looked like a self-soothing gesture.

After they'd talked back and forth for a while, Gil gestured for Bright to stand up, before pulling him into a tight hug.  
The two held on for a beat, then let go. Gil mussed Bright's hair, letting his hand linger on the nape of his neck for a brief moment.

JT wondered, not for the first time, just how these two knew each other. If he didn't know any better, he might think they were father and son from what he'd just seen.  
Was Bright, like, Gil's nephew or something? It seemed unlikely by the look of him, but genes could be weird sometimes, you know.

The sound of his desk phone ringing snapped JT from his reverie. He took a quick sip from his NYPD mug (weak, burnt, and now cold, too- great) and answered, leaving the mystery of Malcolm Bright unsolved for now.


End file.
